Something Lilac This Way Comes
by achillies-eel
Summary: X-over. "You can't shoot him," Sam said firmly. "Dean... what would JESUS do?"  A/N: Now continued with sequel/companion fic/next chapter! :D
1. Something Lilac

_A/N: Yeah... I don't know where this came from. Excuse this abomination, yes? Unbeta'd, because I figured it couldn't get any worse. Kind of short, because my conscience wouldn't let me torture anyone for too long. Enjoy, if you can. :) Kinda disjointed, may make a sequel or related fic if the muse hits._

_Disclaimer: I own nothing Harry Potter. Only Dean Winchester. Er... I mean, I don't own Supernatural. _

_

* * *

**Something Lilac This Way Comes**_

It was so shockingly… _unnatural_, that Dean could only blink. And blink again. And then struggle to keep from gagging.

Teeth that shiny could _not_ be natural.

And the _clothes_. Who wears lilac _anything_, anyway? How could this… this _abomination_ wear that awful colour and still hold his head high and call himself male? It just… it didn't make _sense_. _At all_.

And it was some kind of robe, too, on top of being that blindingly purple shade. Or maybe it wasn't a robe, just some sort of weird-shaped dress, which didn't make sense either, because there were all these people - girls _and_ guys - cooing and goggling at this glaring insult to male kind, and if he were wearing a dress, they wouldn't be doing that, right? Right? It just… it had to be a mistake. A dream, maybe. A nightmare. A _joke_, perhaps?

Dean turned to Sam, hoping desperately to make sense of this atrocity.

"Sam… is this guy for _real_?"

Sam didn't answer him, though, because he was too busy staring in fascination at the strange creature standing in the middle of the street, gravely reassuring a salivating fangirl that, should she ever have the misfortune to be attacked by a werewolf to never fear, because Gilderoy Lockheart would be there to save her from a horrible fate - provided there was a telephone box within which he could kill the creature, of course. Or something like it. Dean heard the words, but they generally didn't make it far enough into his brain to register as anything making sense.

Ignoring this, he poked Sam in the ribs. "Sam… _Sam_!" He said in a harsh whisper, dismissing the annoyed looks cast his way.

His brother gave a little jolt and looked back at him, giving him an unintelligent look and a, "Huh?"

"Common, is it a succubus, shape shifter, _something_? A witch, maybe? Because for cryin' out loud, this thing can't be human."

Sam, still not really listening, muttered in an awestruck whisper, "He _must_ bleach his teeth. It's the only explanation. I mean, it's just _insane_ how shiny they are. Do you think he might be willing to give me some pointers, because if he can get his teeth that white and still attract girls, he's got to have some kind of secret..."

Dean could only stare at his brother in stupefied horror. The thing was a witch. Wizard. _Whatever_. Had to be. It had his brother under a spell, he was _sure_ of it, because that was the only way he could explain Sam actually _considering_ getting his teeth turned into that horrific shade. This thing had cast its mojo on _his_ brother, and Dean Winchester would not stand for it.

Grimly determined, he got a tight hold on his sawed-off and prepared to pull it out from under his jacket and blow the fuck out of this monstrosity. He would kill this thing, get his brother and the crowd out of its hold, and they could go on their merry way, and Dean would never have to think about _shiny_ or _lilac_ ever again.

Unfortunately, Dean never got the chance to shoot It, because Sam chose that moment to check what his brother was doing, and when he saw the tell-tale movements that indicated Dean was about to shoot some unfortunate soul, he clasped a hand tightly on Dean's arm, preventing him from moving.

"You can't shoot him," Sam said firmly, voice lowered so as not to attract the attention of the crowd. Dean Looked at him, feeling strangely scandalized.

"Not shoot that _thing_? Sammy, I'm doing this for the betterment of man kind. Who the hell calls 'emselves _Gilderoy Lockheart_ anyway, demon or no? I mean, that's just like... like…" Words failing, Dean settled for shooting an arctic glare at the beaming creature in the eye-gouging outfit and tried harder to pull his arm out of Sam's grip.

"Look, Dean," Sam said, voice slightly patronizing, and tightened his hold on his struggling brother. "He's not a demon, a witch, a succubus or anything else. He's just a strange guy with… special tastes, okay? We can't just go 'round shooting random people when they annoy us. We're the good guys, remember?"

When Dean still refused to let go, Sam heaved a sigh and pulled out the 'big guns':

"Dean... what would _Jesus_ do?"

Dean swallowed, feeling mutinous but knowing Sam was right, and reluctantly relinquished his hold on his shotgun. "All right, fine, you win; but I'm keeping an eye on this… thing. It might be dangerous."

Sam rolled his eyes indulgently and began to pull Dean away from the crowd, neither of them noticing as the crowd, the lilac clothed man and the building he had been standing under faded into nothing as they moved away. "Sure, Dean, whatever you say. Maybe he scared away that werewolf by _smiling_ at it."

Dean smiled himself at that, a bit reluctantly, and allowed Sam to pull him away. "Yeah… though he probably blinded it first."

They both snickered and moved on their way, Sam thinking over the possibilities of where he could get a good bleach like that, and Dean wondering if having the army's uniforms changed to lilac instead of camouflage might have helped the poor bastards out a bit during WWI and II. It might have blinded the enemy long enough to give them a chance to shoot the shit out of them.

It sure worked for Goldenroy, if the way some of the crowd had been wincing and covering their eyes was any indication.

Something occurred to Dean then, and he turned to look at Sam with a dark glare. "Oh, and Sam? If you so much as _consider_ getting your teeth bleached, I will break your face. Permanently."

Sam pouted outrageously, making puppy dog eyes at Dean as he whined, "Deeeeean, but what if we run into a werewolf? I need to be able to blind myself away from danger! Who KNOWS if my lilac jumpsuit will be enough to scare it away?"

Ignoring that curious looks thrown his way as he burst out laughing, Dean allowed himself to forget the odd thing in the purple bath robe and move on to things that made more sense.

For now.

* * *

_A/N: To possibly be continued in the future, if Dean gets in the mood for lilac. :) Please drop me a line if you enjoyed it anyway, despite its lack of beta'ing and any sort of sense._


	2. Werewolves Burn and Potions Bubble

_A/N: This is a sequel/companion fic to SLTWC. It might get long, in which case I'll probably just make it a new fic, but for now, I'm just going to keep it as 'chapter 2'. The plan is for one more installment, but who knows? Maybe my Muse will actually cooperate._

**_YAY I CAN FINALLY POST THIS! _**_Thank you, , for FINALLY working! Dude... I so meant to post this, like, last week. Swear to God. _

_Disclaimer: I own... a compact. And a pink love potion. Possibly. You never know. _

* * *

**_Werewolves Burn and Potions Bubble_**

"And then I shot him," Dean finished, stubbornly refusing to look defensive or apologetic.

There was a long, painful silence.

"So let me see if I understand this," John began eventually, voice slow and even, carefully bland and inexpressive as if they were talking about the weather.

Dean felt every inclination inside of him to rebel and be defensive quietly whimper, curl in on themselves and die at his dad's quietly controlled tone of voice – a voice at odds with the fire in his eyes that expressed anger, confusion and incredulity all once.

"You pissed off a group of witches, nearly got yourselves killed, very nearly caught the attention of the local law enforcement, went after a werewolf against my express wishes, and burned down an entire forest… because of one guy. With bad dress sense."

There was another moment of long, dangerously contemplative silence, which was broken only by the quiet sounds of a cough covering a laugh. John's glare only produced raised hands of innocence from Bobby, who was trying, and failing, to hide his amusement.

Sam swiftly exchanged a look of guilt for one of inexpertly crafted innocence when his father's piercing glare then turned to him, which didn't do anything to erase the look on John's face.

The sigh that next escaped his mouth spoke of a growing lack of patience and a desire to strangle something, preferably his sons. Said sons immediately tried to look Contrite and Apologetic.

"Let's try this again," John finally said, wearily rubbing at his temples. "In detail, this time. And you'd better hope you can make the explanation sound better, for your own sakes."

* * *

It all started when they had finally cornered the werewolf.

Sam, who had been in charge of shadowing the werewolf, and Dean - who, typically, had lost 'rock, paper, scissors' and ended up being the bait - had finally succeeded in backing the snarling beast into a corner. Just as Sam had aimed the rifle (armed with silver bullets) at the werewolf's head, something truly, terribly awful had happened:

"My dear friends and followers: never fear! for Gilderoy _Lockheart_ is here!"

Following directly on the heels of this horribly tasteless declaration was… something. Something both Dean and Sam had had the misfortune to be acquainted with.

With canary yellow, shimmering material flying, sunbeam-white teeth glowing, 'baby blue' eyes glinting with pride and a positively _cloying _sense of self-worth, Gilderoy Lockheart appeared, from the middle of nowhere, and proceeded to completely ruin all their efforts.

And nearly made Sam choke on his own tongue.

"How did he… what... _who_…"

Dean, looking completely gobsmacked, couldn't seem to get the words out. His voice had a rather strangled quality to it, and Sam knew that he was no doubt feeling as shocked as he was. Most likely more horrified than shocked, something he sincerely sympathized with.

It was hard not to, when their carefully set trap had just been foiled, and without any effort whatsoever.

"Sam! What the fuck is going on?"

Moments later, Dean had apparently moved on from shocked to completely furious, his standard reaction to dealing with confusion. He began waving his shotgun around rather dangerously, and Sam winced as it came a tad too close to his face.

"I don't know, but we need to do something, because that moron is going to get us and himself killed!" Sam hissed quickly in reply - after a wide-eyed look at the yellow figure grandly posed in the middle of the clearing.

The both stared at the creature a little longer, too stunned to react. Dean eventually shook himself, still looking furious, but he stopped waving his gun around. Sam inhaled deeply and rubbed the bridge of his nose, beginning to brainstorm furiously.

Keeping a careful eye on the strangely subdued werewolf and Gilderoy who was, for some reason, spouting bastardized Latin at the poor creature, Sam set about getting Dean to help him form a plan.

Unfortunately, Dean wasn't being helpful at _all_.

Apparently having recovered from his sudden bout of anger (though looking still a bit befuddled, as if he couldn't believe such a thing was happening to him), Dean had settled down on top of a tree stump and looked prepared to wait things out.

Sam stared at him.

"Dude… what the hell are you doing?" he whispered furiously, casting cautious glances at the other two figures, now doing a strange avoidance dance around each other, yellow clashing painfully with the werewolf's muddy brown and silver coat.

Dean shrugged, calmly unconcerned. "This isn't real. I figure I should just wait it out, and I'll probably wake up sooner or later."

Sam wanted to facepalm, really badly. "A dream, Dean? This is _not a dream_. We have an incompetent... I don't even _know_ what he is, trying to do… _something_ to a _full grown werewolf_! How can you just sit there and say this is a dream?"

His brother looked at him as if he were mentally deficient.

"Because…" he said slowly, "…it is. Obviously."

Near to growling in frustration, Sam marched over to Dean, intending to yank him to his feet and physically propel him into action… when things got even worse.

With numerous pops, a dozen figures appeared in the clearing, all holding different lengths of stick-sized wood in front of them, appearing prepared to do battle. What they thought they could do with those sticks of wood Sam had no idea, and he stared at them, through a growing dizziness, with a sense that, perhaps – just this once – his brother was right, and this was a dream. Because there was no way in _hell_ he'd just seen a group of people appear out of thin air. Waving sticks. And wearing bathrobes.

An even larger group appeared the next moment, these ones waving the same sticks, but not in a defensive, wary manner like the first group. These ones looked ecstatic, generally cheering and clapping. Some were holding up signs proclaiming to the world their love of this sad, pathetically yellow creature who was about to experience Death-via-Werewolf; and some were throwing things, like underwear and little bottles filled with various colours of liquid – these mostly being the girls, who were busily shouting out declarations of True Love, their eyes shining with a sickening kind of devotion.

A headache sprung to life behind his eyes, the result of a combination of stress, debilitating shock, and too much _yellow_. Sam ignored the blinding pain as best he could, dragging his frighteningly serene brother to his feet and into the relatively-safe shelter of the tree line behind them.

_I shouldn't be the one always having to do this, _Sam thought with slightly hysterical dismay. _Why does Dean always get to disappear in his shock while _I'm_ the one who has to deal with all the weird shit and come up with a plan?_

Ducking down behind a tree before anyone decided to notice their presence, he eyed the robed figures circling the increasingly agitated werewolf, having put aside his disbelief and befuddlement for the time being.

He studied them, watched how they moved in a fashion that indicated experience and knowledge of a werewolf's style of attack. A few of them had moved to the crowd and were pushing the cheering hoard backwards, shouting and casting sparks out of the end of their sticks – something Sam, again, ignored, as he didn't feel up to dealing with this new knowledge.

They seemed capable of holding their own – a small relief, as that still left the fan club, and the fan club's _Idiot _idol.

"Okay. _Okay_," Sam said, taking deep, soothing breaths to calm his ridiculously pounding heart. "Okay. So. Here's the plan. I'll distract the werewolf and lead it away from the crowd, while you shoot your gun in the air or something to scare off the other guys. Then once they're gone, I'll circle back and we can take care of him here, since this is the only clearing big enough for miles."

It might not have been a particularly good plan, but when it came to Dean, all you needed was an initial plan of action to get his mind working. Dean would probably mock him a bit for his horrible planning skills, but what was important was that he would then come up with a better one on his own that would help them get out of this mess with as few casualties as possible.

…Naturally, Sam received no answer.

Before he could turn and berate his brother again, a finger poked him in his side.

"Dude... look. Pretty," came the dreamy whisper from somewhere in the vicinity of his elbow.

The finger that had poked him was covered in a lightly shimmering, golden-pink liquid, which seemed to pulsate in a heart beat-like fashion as it dripped lightly from the raised hand, even as it was slowly absorbed into the skin. The remains of a glass vial which lay on the ground (glistening shards of glass from where it had fallen and broken sparkling in the sunlight, Sam noticed vaguely) was coated in the same liquid.

And Dean smiled up at Sam beatifically from where he lay sprawled comfortably on the ground. Sam felt his heart leap into his throat.

_Oh God, not now, _please_ not now_.

"One of the funny people threw it, and doesn't it look nice on my skin?"

Moving carefully, Sam gently tugged Dean's hand away from his body, keeping it from touching anything else.

Okay. So. This wasn't good at all.

"You know, I don't think I've ever told you this, but you're really very pretty, Sammy," Dean was saying, still in that dreamy tone of voice.

Swallowing down a sharp wave of panic and a hysterical urge to laugh, Sam used the edge of his sleeve to wipe off the remaining liquid that had yet to be absorbed. He wasn't sure what the stuff was supposed to do, but if the way Dean was acting was any indication, it was some sort of drug.

Which meant that he was essentially on his own. Surrounded by maniacs in things-not-fit-to-wear-in-public, who believed that waving around tree branches would actually help them fight a fully-grown, completely pissed off werewolf.

They were doomed. They were _so_ doomed.

* * *

"I was sure Dean was going to be out for the count after that," Sam concluded, carefully _not_ looking at his fuming brother. "And there wasn't much time to think, so I had to come up with a plan as quickly as I could. And that's when it started to get really bad…"

* * *

He was just pouring out the last of the gasoline can (the rest of which he'd poured, quietly and careful to stay out of sight, in a large circle around the clearing) onto the dry shrubbery when a hand grabbed his arm.

So far, none of the strange… _beings_ had noticed them, which was odd; but Sam wasn't about to look a gift horse in the mouth, so he simply tried to be as inconspicuous as possible. It served to make him especially tense, though, so when the hand grabbed his arm without any warning, Sam had a mild panic attack.

A bit of scuffling ensued, followed by a number of punches and muffled cursing. Inevitably, Sam found himself on his back, breath knocked out of him, and an annoyed Dean glaring down at him.

"Whadd'ya have ta go and do that for, Sammy?" Dean asked, puzzled. He had an intense, almost crazed look in his eyes, Sam noticed, which was strangely offset by the look of absent carelessness on his face; he kept losing concentration, and would cast his eyes about the area with vague, faintly curious interest before drifting back to stare down at Sam. His speech patterns had changed too, taking on that slurred, almost sloppy quality that usually only occurred when Dean was drunk to the point of passing out. It made Sam want to grab his shoulders and shake him and shake him until he'd shaken the damn drug or whatever it was clear of his brother's system.

Oblivious to his brother's frustrated train of thought, Dean continued earnestly:

"Sammy, we gotta save him. We _gotta_."

"Um…" Sam tried to twist his head, frantically searching with his free hand for his shotgun. If the manic gleam in Dean's eye was any indication, his brother was no longer amongst the whole and sane. If he didn't let go…

"Ah… who do we have to save?"

"Goldenroy, of course!" the older man replied indignantly, like it was unthinkable he hadn't known in the first place. "He's bein' attacked by these… these freaky demon thingys. With weird clothes and… and sticks and stuff. We haf'ta go save'im."

Sam froze, a sinking feeling beginning to expand in his chest. No. It couldn't be…

The feverish intensity in Dean's face as he stared off into the distance was answer enough.

_No_, Sam groaned silently. _Not a love potion. Anything but a love potion. _

"You… can let go of me now, Dean."

Dean did, and stumbled back a little, off balance but still dangerously keen. "Sammy, we _gotta_."

"Of… course Dean. Of course we have to," Sam said carefully. He casually crouched and reached behind him for his brother's bag, which was lying by the tree where Dean had dropped it. If he remembered correctly, Dean kept of pair of handcuffs somewhere in his bag. _Why_ he would need handcuffs Sam wasn't going to think about, but right now they would really prove handy.

A quick search led his fingers to the cold touch of steel, and, quietly extracting the cuffs from the bag, Sam straightened and aimed a tight smile at his brother.

"Dean! Come over here for a sec. I think we should make a plan before we do anything, don't you?"

Dean turned, and the disconcerting look in his eyes momentarily disappeared under a beaming smile.

"'Course! A plan! Good thinkin', Sammy!"

He ambled over, and Sam held his breath. When Dean was about a foot from the tree, Sam tensed... and lashed out.

Within seconds, Dean was handcuffed to a conveniently placed, low-hanging branch, his faced wreathed in confusion. He tugged futilely at the cuffs, brows scrunched in bewilderment.

"Sammy?"

"Dean," Sam sighed, reaching out to put a hand on his shoulder. He felt a bit guilty, but there was nothing he could do. Dean would only be a liability at this point, and until he could figure out a way to reverse the effects of whatever it was his brother had come in contact with, Dean was just going to have to stay put.

"Sorry dude, but I don't think you can be of much help right now. Why don't you just stay here while I go finish up with the werewolf, okay? Then we can figure out how to get you better."

Dean's face, which had been a mask of confusion until now, morphed into one of crazed anger.

"Yer tryin' to keep me from Goldenroy, aren't you? You can' have'im Sammy! He's mine!"

He began tugging harder at the cuffs, making angry little noises. Letting out a frustrated breath, Sam grabbed Dean's wrist and said a bit harshly, "_Leave_ it Dean. The sooner I can deal with this… this _clusterfuck_, the sooner we can leave and get you fixed up. Now I can't _do _that if I have to worry about you, so would you _please_ stop trying to take off the handcuffs?"

He never saw the blow coming.

* * *

_A/N: I do love my cliffhangers. I don't know if I like where this is going, but since it's been sitting on my computer for the past few months... Review if you would! I would love to know what you think!_


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